


Hostile

by hibye



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cultural Differences, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Multiple, elf racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibye/pseuds/hibye
Summary: The Inquisitor is a Dalish elf who is stubbornly attached to his culture and his people. The other members of the Inquisition don't know what to make of that.(As an Ojibwe person knowing that Dalish elves are based on Plains Indians, I wrote this to work out some of my frustrations.)
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 9
Kudos: 138





	Hostile

On the day that they arrive to Skyhold, Lavellan walks the perimeter, leaving offerings of food, tobacco, and herbs that they can ill afford upon the battlements. The rest of the burgeoning Inquisition is buzzing around him at hectic pace, trying to set down roots before the sun sets and the mountain cold becomes too much, but Lavellan is steadfast, murmuring well-practiced prayers as people bustle by. He won’t be distracted from the task, no matter who approaches or how they wheedle.

“What does he think he’s doing?” Cassandra hisses.

“Some Dalish nonsense, I’d expect,” says Cullen.

“He is leaving gifts for the Creators,” replies Leliana serenely. She looks up from the report that one of the runners has brought her; they have been exploring the castle all day, taking note of resources and crumbling masonry. The others have similar letters in hand. “The Hero of Fereldan used to do the same. To ask for protection, I believe.”

Cullen snorts. “I believe history will tell how effective that practice has been.”

“I’ll accept any aid we can get,” says Josephine, brandishing her quill as if to declare the conversation over. “Superstition or no.”

Leliana nods, and while Cassandra and Cullen exchange an irritated look, the complaints end there. There’s too much work to be done to spend it grousing, anyway.

\--

It is nightfall when Lavellan finally makes an appearance at the central cooking fire, set up in the dilapidated main hall. The transformation is stunning already – the chunks of decaying wood and stone have been pushed flush to the walls or piled outside, the holes temporarily sealed by mage handiwork, and tents are lined along the inside walls. With the doors closed, the heat keeps nicely in the vaulted space. It’s temporary, but it works.

Lavellan is quiet as he collects a bowl of watery soup and moves to sit with Dorian, one of the remaining few sitting idle; most of the others are helping around the camp or have retired to bed. Dorian, however, appears to be a bit of a night owl, and is reading in a corner by magelight. He lends a small, surprised smile when Lavellan sits cross-legged at his feet.

“Goodness, he yet lives,” he remarks. “I heard that we had lost you over one of the parapets.”

“No such luck,” Lavallen says, a faint smile pulling at his mouth in return. He takes an experimental sip of his soup and shuts his eyes as its warmth circulates in his blood. He would never mention it, but he feels frozen solid from the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes. “What are you reading?”

“Frankly, whatever just so happens to be on hand.” Dorian shows Lavellan the cover. He guesses from the artwork that it’s something about herbs local to the area, something the scouts may have been using. Most of the books to make it from Haven (of which there were very few) are still in storage, away from the elements.

“At least it’s useful,” says Lavellan.

“A low bar,” sighs Dorian, “and it hardly meets it. Though perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve an interest in it.”

“No?”

“Rumor has it you were up to some kind of Dalish witchery today.”

Lavellan bristles a little, but there’s humor in Dorian’s eyes. He is teasing, not mocking.

Dorian asks, “Is that something you do often?”

“Blessing the camp was one of my responsibilities as First,” Lavellan answers softly. “But we only do it the first day.”

After a few more spoonfuls of soup, he adds, “It’s as much a cultural practice as a pragmatic one. The ritual thins the Veil, calls wisps and spirits to service. Makes casting easier. And when I set the perimeter, if I am nearby, I can feel when it’s disturbed.”

Information like that always catches Dorian’s attention. His thirst for knowledge is paramount, and already he has set his book aside to lean closer, eyes bright. “That’s excellent. It’s been written that there were similar practices in Tevinter, in worship of the Old Gods, though the details have been lost to time. Now and then, some intrepid explorer will stumble upon an old altar or some such thing.”

Lavellan couldn’t care one whit about what Tevinter shems used to do, but he nods politely. Shem or no, he does enjoy Dorian’s company. The man talks to him like a person. And once their initial arguments about slavery were resolved, Lavellan found that he was capable of listening.

“Is that right, that even a man without magic can set up such wards?” Dorian continues.

“No,” says Lavellan, settling in. He scrapes some lumps of potato from the bottom of his bowl. “But he may finish them.”

They pass the rest of the night that way, neither feeling up to sleep, chatting in hushed voices about the properties of magic until the sun comes over the top of Skyhold’s frozen, warded walls.

\--

Despite his magic, despite his heritage, and despite his wildling looks, Lavellan is made Inquisitor with the full support of his advisors. He looks fierce, wielding an enormous blade almost as easily as his staff, but nonetheless absurdly out-of-place. Josephine can only hope that his natural charisma and luck will see him through as their figurehead.

There’s little else, upon looking at him, for the Fereldan people to unite behind in trust.

\--

Lavellan’s singing. He does that before heading out on one of his Inquisitorial missions, every time. The sound of his voice is always high and fluting, a kind of pitch that Krem can sometimes hear from the training grounds. He listens when he can; there are no Dalish in Tevinter, and Charger’s own never sings. Or she didn’t, until Lavellan. Now and then he can find her at the Inquisitor’s side, hands clasped behind her, head bowed in solemn song. There are one or two other wild elves who come along, too, ones that Krem hasn’t met.

Today, Lavellan has packed up for a long trip to the Western Approach, his party already mounted on their horses and waiting for him at the gate. Dorian, as always, and Varric and Warden Blackwall. Krem watches from the overlook, arms braced on the half-wall. He only starts a little when the Bull speaks suddenly behind him.

“Can’t carry a tune for shit, can he?”

Krem can’t help but smile at that corny sense of humor. “Funny, Chief.”

“Noticed you listening in an awful lot, though.”

“Yeah,” Krem agrees. No point in denying it. “I guess I like it.”

Boss’s eyebrows go up. Krem doesn’t let it get to him.

“It’s the same song every time, I think. I guess it means something to him.”

“It’s a prayer to Mythal and Ghilan’nain,” says the Bull. “For safe travels.”

That surprises Krem enough to steal his attention from the end of Lavellan’s little ceremony. “This a story I don’t know about? Where do you get off reciting elvish gods? You converting?”

The Bull laughs, a big booming sound that has Dorian glancing over his shoulder as they ride out the gates. “You’d be amazed what you learn by actually _talking_ to people, Krem.”

“I talk plenty.”

The show over, they both turn to head inside for a drink. It’s midday and the sky is full of sunshine, but the cold never really dissipates this far up in the mountains; the sweat is cooling on Krem’s skin enough to chill. The Bull carries on as they make their way to their usual spot.

“People get afraid to ask him what he’s all about. They’ll say it’s because he’s got a short fuse, but that’s not it. He just doesn’t let them get away with saying dumb shit. What it really is – it’s just that they’re afraid of him, because he’s not ashamed of what he is.”

“You’re sounding way too insightful, Chief,” says Krem, because he doesn’t want to think too hard on it. “Let’s get you drunk.”

“He reminds me a little bit of you,” the Bull adds, and that’s it. The hard lump in Krem’s stomach squeezes his esophagus shut.

“Thanks,” he says, and banks to the bar with his coin.

\--

At night, the desert bites with cold, gusting winds carrying sand like needling teeth. Lavellan returns to the warmth of the fire from his camp-setting ritual; he sits beside Dorian, who is busy shivering. After observing him for a moment, Lavellan leaves again, only to return with a druffalo hide to drape over Dorian’s shoulders.

Dorian makes a soft, surprised noise. The fur is tough and bristly beneath his fingers, but incredibly warm, and the thick hide blocks the wind entirely. It smells strongly of tanning smoke. Without thinking, he burrows deeper inside. “Thank you,” he says. He is too cold to be sarcastic.

Lavellan smiles. “Glad to help.”

He is often full of such surprises. Small kindnesses, almost extravagant in their mundanity.

On the other side of the fire, Varric is regaling Blackwall with another one of his outrageous stories, sending Blackwall into roaring laughter. Even in the chill and the darkness, their good cheer is infectious. Dorian watches as Lavellan serenely produces a bit of wood to start whittling.

“You are always doing something,” he remarks, before he can stop himself.

But Lavellan only shrugs. “Keeping busy helps me...” He makes a vague motion with his pocket knife. “Stop… ruminating.”

“Ruminating,” Dorian echoes.

“Yes, I think. I want to focus on changing things, instead of wallowing.”

“Ah. You underestimate the pleasure of a good wallowing.”

Lavellan laughs. “Maybe I’ll give it a go someday, in your honor.” He pauses to blow bits of sawdust from the grooves of his new creation. Half-finished, it almost looks like a statuette, or a chess piece.

“What are you making, if I may ask?”

Lavellan opens his palm for Dorian to see better. “It will be a totem for Andruil, when it’s finished. Or a sorry attempt at one.”

“What for?” asks Dorian, and battles back a reflexive smile at the sincere expression that crosses Lavellan’s face. He knows that people so often write off the Inquisitor’s doings as Dalish nonsense, but he always has an explanation when prompted.

Despite his controversial political leanings and background, Lavellan isn’t all that bad, Dorian has decided. He has a wonderfully wicked sense of humor and an unshakable confidence that makes him a steady, trustworthy leader. He is inclined to treat others with the same respect they give him – which, given who he is, is either quite a lot or none at all. And which, thankfully, Josephine is trying to teach him out of.

“I was raised to be First for my clan,” he says now, returning to his carving. “I’m not a hunter or a craftsman. But since I’ve been separated from my clan, I have to be both of these things. I already made one for June.” Now, strangely, he looks a little bashful. “They’re more for good luck than anything else.”

“Speaking from the perspective of an outsider, your confidence is such that you seem beyond the need for good luck charms.”

As if summoned by the potential for gossip, Varric appears on Dorian’s other side. “You’ve got a lucky rabbit’s foot, Keeper?”

“A totem for Andruil,” Lavellan repeats.

“I’ve seen one like that before,” says Varric, and launches into another story.

Dorian listens to the familiar cadence of Varric’s voice, warmed by the heavy druffalo hide, and doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Lavellen gently shakes him and sends him to his tent.

\--

They encounter some of the typical trouble the next time they pass through Redcliff: strangers addressing Cassandra or Blackwall over Lavellan’s head, as if he isn’t there; calling him “pet” or “rabbit” in the tavern; one man even catches him at the Inn, grabbing him by the arm to take him Maker-knows-where, before Lavellan breaks all of the beast’s front teeth.

“This is why we avoid human settlements,” Lavellan mutters to Blackwall, as they sit together watching the sun come up. The town is busy, even this early, with fishermen boarding their boats and taverns shaking out their lingering clientele. But in the half-dark, with the stars still standing out against a sleepy shade of lavender and the mist lying low against the grass, it’s close to peaceful.

There is a bruise darkening on Lavellan’s brow. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been caught off-guard, Blackwall knows. He doubts it will happen again.

That evening, Dorian and Lavellan enter the tavern alone; apparently, they are on some mission from Mother Giselle, from what Blackwall can gather. The ride out of town is quiet, and Lavellan spits as they cross the front gates into the rocky path of the Hinterlands.

“Good riddance,” he says.

Dorian nods. “Indeed.”

\--

On the Storm Coast, Lavellan breaks from camp to explore the craggy mountaintops looming over the shore. He climbs the strange cylindrical rocks, bare feet ensuring a slightly steadier grip on the wet stone, until he reaches an outcropping two thirds of the way up. His skin is damp from the salty ocean spray, breath coming short from the steep climb.

Up here, he can see the expanse of gray, seething water stretching out to the horizon, where the heavy fog swallows it up. The sound of the waves soothes him, reminds him of the long journeys on the aravels as his clan crossed from place to place. At the end of summer, they would arrive just outside of Tantervale, settle in a wooded plateau in the Vinmarks, where the chokecherries and blackberries would come into season. This was Lavellan’s favorite time of year, when the leaves changed color and the rabbits were fat from summer bounty, and the clan would spend their evenings making music and holding weddings.

He shuts his eyes, remembering the bittersweet taste of unripe blackberries with a particular pang of longing, and when he opens them again, Cole is sitting beside him.

Lavellan does not mind him. This spirit has proposed no deals. The other mages are wary of him, perhaps afraid, but that is their Circle training. Few Keepers succumb to the temptation of demons, even in the face of such hardship as the Dalish lot in life. (Yet it is no surprise that shems take no lessons from the Dalish on this matter.)

“Sera doesn’t like me,” sighs Cole.

“She doesn’t usually like me, either,” says Lavellan. “Did you argue back in camp?”

“ _She_ argued. Then I heard you calling.”

“I’m sorry for disturbing you.” Lavellan turns to survey the camp below, the faint light of its fires peeking beneath the trees. The woodsmoke smell is familiar, but there are human soldiers guarding its perimeter, and no scarlet sails of aravels.

“Certain and supported, then suddenly separated, stranded amongst wolves,” Cole says quietly.

“That’s enough,” murmurs Lavellan. He tightens the buckles strapping his satchel to his leathers before he begins the climb again.

\--

When they come across the small clan of Dalish elves in the Plains, Cassandra expects the usual rigamarole when it comes to Lavellan – the irritating smugness, self-righteousness, and secrecy. The reverence for dead pieces of a dead culture, and hatred of the shems who killed it. She goes where Lavellan goes, fights for the cause of the Inquisition, but every conversation with him is like pulling teeth.

Instead, there is a party.

It’s not much; from what Cassandra can gather between unbroken conversations in elvish patois, the clan is struggling and short on supplies, which Lavallen immediately provides from their own reserves like it’s nothing. But they roast the ram that their hunters bring back and play music on drums and flutes. There is dancing, of which the footwork seems very specific. The traveling party of Inquisition scouts and soldiers are offered some sort of Dalish sweet – rice flour baked into a roll and topped in honey.

The Iron Bull and Dorian willingly go and make attempts to learn dance steps. Lavallen, whose face is always so stony, laughs until he’s bent double. He is hugged, and jostled, and passed from elf to elf.

Cassandra sits out, but she feels softened by the sight. She’s never seen a Dalish, noble savages that they are, fall backwards off a tree stump in a fit of helpless giggles.

In the morning, Lavellan is in high spirits, a faint smile on his lips and new beads woven into his hair. Dorian, too, is wearing a new earring, made of delicately carved animal bone.

“I’m an honorary heathen,” he jokes.

\--

As much as they can afford, Lavellan makes an attempt to linger in the Dales. He particularly keeps in close contact with the clan they encounter in the Exalted Plains. On one such visit, they pick up a Dalish hunter named Loranil; he has requested to join the Inquisition. Varric can’t help but spy on the exchange, as there is a whole going-away ceremony with songs, gift-giving, and gently hitting Loranil with a feather fan.

It takes a few days for Lavellan to return to his inner circle proper, as he prefers to spend his evenings eating dinner and chatting with Loranil. When he finally joins Varric by the fireside, he merely shrugs and says, “The scouts have adopted him.”

The words are casual, but Lavellan’s face is despondent. He has never made a secret of his homesickness, but seeing it on such bald display plucks at Varric’s sympathies. He’s always had a soft spot for outcasts.

“It’s thanks to you, you know.”

Lavellan shoots him a skeptical glance.

“Really. The first time we saw those aravels, the soldiers had a fit. They were sure that they were about to be skinned alive by elven savages.” Varric chuckles, but Lavellan shrivels even more.

“A shem village is more likely to murder without provocation than a Dalish clan will ever be,” he murmurs. “Those stories only justify it more.” Then, in an instant, fury kindles inside of him; he sits upright, eyes and voice growing hard. “Humans are so accustomed to doing whatever they like to us that our very existence offends. When we defend our borders, our language, our people, it frightens them. They should count themselves lucky by the truth of it.”

This time, Lavellan’s gaze is bright with anger. Varric meets him head-on. As intimidating as the Inquisitor can be, he has nothing on the intense viciousness of Fenris or Anders in a snit. And Varric can hardly blame the man, anyway – even if he weren’t Dalish, his every move is watched and criticized. It’s difficult to imagine what it must feel like, to have his every belief, his very identity policed into oblivion. In a way, Lavellan’s resistance to it is admirable. It must be hard.

So, Varric changes tack.

“Your valleslin,” he says, and it seems that hearing the correct word for the thing makes Lavellan ease somewhat. “Does it mean something?”

Lavellan’s ears twitch, a tic which Varric hasn’t quite figured out, but he takes a deep breath and seems to will himself into another state of mind. “Another detail for your story-writing, I take it?”

“So suspicious. But yes.”

“It’s an alteration on the design for Mythal, containing elements of Dirthamen’s insignia. Protection, leadership, justice, wisdom. Partnership.”

All of that makes sense, for a would-be Dalish Keeper. But that last bit piques Varric’s interest. “Partnership?”

“Both Mythal and Dirthamen are halves of a whole, tied in union to another god. Elgar’nan and Falon’Din, respectively.” (These types of culture lessons from Lavellan are par for the course, so Varric tries very hard to feign interest while he gets to the point. Besides, it’s serving its purpose in soothing Lavellan; Keepers, Varric understands, are lore-tellers, an occupation with which Varric is very familiar, and for which the compulsion to carry on is inborn.) “My Keeper, Deshanna… she is like a mother to me. She has always said that I have a lover’s heart. And so.”

“And so,” Varric agrees, pleasantly surprised. It is odd details like this that make his prodding worthwhile. “So, beneath that fearsome exterior lies a secret romantic. A man waiting to sweep a fair maiden off her feet.”

To his delight, that makes the Inquisitor laugh out loud. A few nearby soldiers turn in surprise at the sound.

“Write what you want, cousin,” says Lavellan.

The gentle nickname makes Varric smile. “Now, don’t give me that kind of poetic license, or I’ll be inclined to use it.”

\--

Solas and Lavellan are bickering again. Neither raise their voices, but the sharp cadence of their tone carries up to Leliana’s rookery, and she would be a poor spymaster not to listen in. She braces an elbow on the railing to peer down into the atrium, where Solas stands with his arms folded, head cocked back in that way he does when he is holding back information. It’s Leliana’s least favorite pose of his.

“History and religion do not exist in isolation,” Solas is staying. He turns a little circle, pacing the narrow space. “It’s hubris for your people to insist they are the keepers of all elven lore and history when they ignore such a basic fact.”

“We are a living culture,” Lavellan argues. “Modern history changes the context. We have had our stories ripped from our hands by the Chantry, and you’ll criticize us for holding onto what’s left?”

“If what’s left is flawed and incorrect, then yes. Exactly so.”

“And I’m telling you, the purpose isn’t academic. It’s about community. About identity.” Lavellan’s hands go to his hair, stroking it back from his face. “We can’t, we won’t, recreate old glory. We care that the elvhen are worth preserving at all – when humans slaughter, enslave, and preach to us at every turn.”

“You take pride, then, in meaningless heathenism, rooted in nothing.”

“Rooted in survival, Solas!” There’s a loud bang as Lavellan punches the table, hard, and Leliana’s ravens kick up a cawing, flapping fuss. It drowns out the rest of the conversation quite effectively, which is just as well. All of their arguments are exactly like this, going round and round and ending up nowhere.

On the level below, Dorian is also leaned over the railing, listening in. At the racket of the birds, he glances up to meet Leliana’s gaze, and they smile at their shared voyeurism. The both of them always have their eyes on the Inquisitor, after all.

\--

Dorian knows, with a kind of gleeful horror, that Halamshiral is just going to be an absolute disaster. No amount of etiquette lessons will be enough to stop Inquisitor Lavellan from picking a fight with the first noble to call him a knife-ear behind his back. They can all only hope it doesn’t start an all-out war.

“So, my dear friend, how many shems are you planning to skin at the Winter Palace?”

“None,” says Lavellan lightly. “Hopefully.” He pauses. “Unfortunately.”

Chuckling, Dorian tucks his bookmark between the pages of his most recent tome and sets it atop the listing stack beside him. Lavellan’s ears quirk, as the always do when he finds himself on the receiving end of Dorian’s undivided attention.

“And how do you expect to manage that?” Dorian asks.

Now Lavellan beams outright, showing Dorian the palm of his left hand, where a small clicker is tied to his finger. “I have a counting machine that Dagna made me. I’m to click it every time I, as Josephine says, ‘get upset.’”

“It’s already got quite a few clicks on it,” Dorian notes.

“I’m practicing.”

It’s hard not to smile around Lavellan. “Any of those clicks on my account, Inquisitor?”

“None,” says Lavellan happily, “yet.”

“Ah. Yet.”

Lavellan’s thumb hovers threateningly over the button, but he’s grinning ear to pointy ear. Still, Dorian puts up his hands.

“You live to see another day, shem,” says Lavellan, but the epithet has no sting when he uses it on Dorian.

It’s not unusual for Lavellan to stop by Dorian’s reading nook at random hours, whenever he has a free moment. Everyone knows – truly everyone, including Mother Giselle, who has already given them an earful – that Lavellan is fond of him. And Dorian rarely minds the attention. Still, there’s a lot of work to do before they travel to Orlais for the peace talks.

“Is there a reason you’ve dropped by?” Dorian asks. “Or would you like another dance lesson?”

“Oh, I would,” says Lavellan, “always. But I’ve brought you something.”

From inside his robe, he produces a small bundle of cloth, tied carefully shut with sinew twine. Inside, absurdly, terribly, wonderfully, is the Pavus family birthright.

\--

At the Winter Palace, the Inquisitor is resplendent. It works in his favor that his advisors were unable to tame him completely. The war paint across his eyes, the feathers in his hair, the bone breastplate that hangs over his red uniform, make him look proud and wild and mysterious. There is no mistaking him for the servants milling amongst the nobles. He cuts a striking figure, one suiting a position as important as leader of the Inquisition.

Josephine despairs of him, but Vivienne thinks it’s a smart move. Fear and novelty are powerful tools of influence. And all that aside, it’s a comedy in action.

The first noble to see him arriving at the front gates screams aloud.

Just in front of her, Vivienne can hear Josephine’s ardent, whispered prayers. Privately, she believes that it will hardly do them any good.

It nearly falls apart when an Orlesian noblewoman reaches out and grasps one of Lavellan’s intricate braids. “What beautiful hair,” she manages to say, before he turns and slaps her hand away from him, face twisted into a vicious snarl. His other hand comes up, and for a worrisome moment it looks like he might strike her, but instead he shows her his palm, and the counting machine pressed against it. _Click_.

Dorian snorts, covering his mouth.

Lavellan gives her two more clicks for good measure before resuming his path towards the ballroom. Sweating just a little, Josephine bustles after him.

Vivienne makes an act of cooling her face with her gilded lace fan, if only to hide a smile.

\--

By the end of the night, Lavellan’s counter has broken in the skirmish with the Duchess’s shades (just short of 900 clicks), the assassination has been thwarted, and no war has been declared on the Dalish (yet). Overall, a success, if only by technical definition.

Lavellan is exhausted, his nerves frayed, his magic drained. As soon as he can escape the crush of the ballroom, he slumps against the railing of the nearest balcony and deeply breathes the fresh night air. When he shuts his eyes, focusing on the feeling of the chilly breeze on his face and the rush of air into his lungs, he almost starts to feel grounded again. Less closed in, surrounded by enemies. Men and women who would be just as happy to mount his scalp above their mantel as a trophy – who had even told him of similar decorations they have already.

His stomach roils with nausea, and Lavellan doubles over to press his face into his shaking hands. As usual, anger wins out over fear, but sorrow weighs heavy over all of it. He hates the flat, cold stone beneath his feet. The bright lanterns and loud, resonant music. The hands touching, touching, touching. Proprietary, menacing.

Down to the very deepest part of him, Lavellan aches for his clan – his family. He is all alone.

After several minutes, some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease, and his breathing slows. His skin feels clammy, the sweat from battle and the crowded ballroom cooling in the brisk, open night.

The door behind him clicks shut, but before Lavellan can go on guard, he hears Dorian’s familiar voice.

“Congratulations, Inquisitor,” he says. “You’ve saved the day.”

When Lavellan turns to look at him, he is surprised to see that Dorian is sat on the long stone bench, unbuckling his boots and socks and setting them neatly aside.

“What are you doing?” he asks, because Dorian is never without proper footwear. It’s a trait for which he is unreasonably proud, in fact.

But Dorian simply crosses the balcony to him and offers him his hand. “You seem like you need a distraction. I know you, and I’ll bet you’re ruminating. Am I right?”

Surprise and relief hit Lavellan in a disorienting double-punch, leaving him laughing despite his exhaustion. Standing, he gives Dorian his hand; with the other, he reaches to flick at the halla bone earring Dorian still wears in his right ear. The Pavus birthright, Lavellan knows, rests against his breast beneath the red Inquisition uniform.

“You were magnificent, you know,” says Dorian. He pulls Lavellan from the balcony’s edge and into a slow, barefooted dance. “Not one aristocrat hung by his toes. An impressive feat.”

“An injustice,” says Lavellan, and he can’t help the warm flutter of affection at the way Dorian indulgently nods. “But thank you.”

The warmth of Dorian’s body is wonderful. It soaks through the places where their bodies touch, carries through Lavellan’s blood. These hands, he thinks, are safe hands. Trusted hands.

“Ma shem chéri,” he says, so softly he isn’t sure he’s said it at all. Dalish patois, that mix of Tevene, Orlesian, slave’s cant, and elven, which he has taught Dorian just a little.

Perhaps understanding, Dorian’s mouth quirks into a smile. “For what it’s worth, I’m here,” he says.

And he is.

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely no proofreading or editing, not super pleased with it, but I wanted to write it and I did. Please let me know your thoughts! Thanks so much for reading!


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